A passionate historian, Brenden is a storyteller at heart...after all, what is history but all the great stories of man handed down for generations. But his love of words and language doesn't stop there. He is a diligent student of literature as well, even spending his senior year of high school interning with an English teacher. This experience brought him in front of the classroom repeatedly where he honed his skill and solidified his certainty that his career path lies in the realm of teaching. He looks forward to pursuing this passion during his college studies, preferably in Ireland, and eventually earning his PhD in history.
Eclectic, and a follower of no man, if Brenden is not off with his nose in a book (anything from War and Peace to The Chronicles of Narnia) he is most likely debating religion or philosophy with a friend, researching the most lethal type of Viking sword, or sipping a quiet cup of Earl Grey while working on a draft of his latest story.
Read his work...
from "Fields of May" by Brenden Garvin
The stool only reminds me of her. I remember her hair; blond and shining. The sky outside the yellow-stained window mimics her eyes. My sweet love, my fair Cailin1. We were nature lovers and often glided easy through the sage and spent the evening beaming at the stars above. The full moon always enhanced her Aphrodite2 appearance. All of the fairies that resided in the woods would dust her with beauty itself.
I’m done. No more drinks. The pain isn’t leaving. I waddle out of the pub and adjust my eyes to the moon-less night that encases me. I begin at the sign that says “Malone Ave.” and commence the twenty mile trek to Dhu. My inebriated mind will not let me care. I can only care about one thing. My Cailin. A car blares past and I stumble to the right of the paved path and fall into the brush. No pain is felt as I stagger to my feet. The moon has unveiled itself and through my glazed eyes I can understand that it is full; this captivates me somehow--only for a mere second as I remember her hair, the fairies and the pain.
In spite of all this pain and loss I move farther away from the road. The road that will take me away from the memories to which I am opposed. I only blunder into the familiar darkness that soon engulfs me. Soon, the great oaks brush past and I arrive. Our spot. I can do nothing except weep. The drunken tears bawl out and the alcohol drains out with my tears. This only exasperates my crying. Tufts of hair fall too graciously and settle around. I cannot keep thinking. I loved too much, and it was happiness thrown away. These fields of love, of my love. These fields of May.
1. Irish Gaelic for young pretty girl.
2. The Greek god of beauty.
from "Agony" by Brenden Garvin
...My love, my world ended with the flick of a finger...
I let my fiery red hair down so that it swayed slightly in the smoke. The only spots on my face were made up with dirt and blood. I looked down and saw a sword lying on the warm, blood-soaked stones. I picked it up and felt its weight. My muscles tensed and I was ready.
The fires were all around the gate now. There would be no escape for me. I resigned myself to a defensive stance and shouted at the beast, “May the light burn and take you. May the rain shatter in your face and peel the skin off of it. May the flats become hills and the hills become mountains to you. For this day, you are cursed! The mother of all curses is upon you and may they swallow you up. Let death not come knocking for you. Let it toy with you like a cat does a mouse. Then, when the pain makes death itself shirk, die.”
The beast turned and glared into my eyes. I felt fear take over. I refused to give in, lest the beast see it as weakness. He gave me a response in a grave, raspy, slithering tone, “Another who refuses me? You shall meet the same fate as this one here.” Here he pointed to my love and gave a laugh so evil that you cringed at hearing it.
Death was the word I said to myself as I ran towards him. And for one moment, my sword rose high in the air, my hair flew back and the demon charged and held up his claw-like hands.
My name is Rose. I am a fighter. All this time I have been fighting without a cause. I have been fighting for no other reason than selfishness. Now I have a reason--I fight for them.
"What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland for their expression, no less than this dilapidated earth?....Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet."
Connect with Brenden...
Do you want to hear more about Brenden's ideas and what he is working on now? Visit his blog!